


Solitary Species

by angerUpheld_x



Category: Homestuck
Genre: How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, Loneliness, My First AO3 Post, very light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angerUpheld_x/pseuds/angerUpheld_x
Summary: "Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and Hell is only a poor synonym."Stephen King —Or, in which Caliborn realizes how alone he truly is. And then decides to do something about it.(First work is a oneshot because God knows how many times I've tried to start a series. First work, so be firm yet gentle. #phrasing)
Kudos: 9





	Solitary Species

By the dead snake in the basement, it was quiet.

Caliborn was sitting alone in his old room. Despite the many intricacies that one could use to fashion a new home, nothing would ever beet the good old prison cell. When you spend your whole life chained to one place, you tend to get attached. So many memories, uneventful as they may have been by comparison, could be recalled in this tomb of life. He found it again after he won, and continued to use it as a, now mobile, base of operations. He taught himself, then the thin green man in the red hat, how to drive, and the latter was doing so now. Which left Cal, as his minions would often call him (usually with the prefix "Big Boss") to ponder.

Ponder as to why it was so goddamn quiet.

The engine of his tube on wheels did nothing to change this. The constant roar of a red sun had allowed such things to become the Cherubian equivalent of white noise. No, the outside was plenty noisy.

It was his mind that was quiet.

Usually, his thoughts were as cluttered as his room. Even after his sister's death, which by the way made up about 45% of his headspace, it was "Keep moving, shoot him, have this green man go here, then this one do that, now grab a snack before you take the bomb here, watch for mobs, remember your time limit, I can't believe he just did that, what a retard, no like seriously he should get his IQ checked, why are my minions so stupid, let me snack dammit." His drawings filled that void when he got all of his planets finished, but after that boy in the blue pajamas came in and slapped his shit, inspiring him to finish what he started, his thinking had slowed down. And now, it was quiet. 

It was so fucking quiet.

It was almost as if the quiet itself was an unbearable roar, consuming all that he heard without making a sound at all. At least with his si-

NO. No. Caliborn was NOT about to admit that ANYTHING about his sister made his life even the SLIGHTEST bit more bearable. The idea of him having such a thought almost made him as repulsed at himself as he was at her. She was a nuisance that pestered him even in both his and her dreams. For God's sake, wasn't there that one time where she was questioning if she was a fucking GIRL? Like, of course she was a girl. Cal certainly wasn't, and this system does require at least one, so that narrows it down quite a bit doesn't it? He wasn't about to let her confusion affect him, and she always did hate how Cal was actually the logical one. What he'd give to see her frustrated face as he would trick her in games of the mind, and then metaphorically shape himself into the letter T over her curled up form.

He's not making snake noises,your making snake noises, shut up. 

Vaguely confused, emerging, and mildly serpentine traits aside, Caliborn is a better person without her. Anyone who says otherwise has a head as full as that one leprechaun with the "12" symbol on his hat.

However...horrible as she was, she did fill a role. She was noise. Such moments of quiet would occasionally befall either side of the proverbial coin, only for the other half to pick up the slack, jogging the thoughts of their counterpart (usually with murderous intentions). With that dreadful, shrill, nagging, majorly ero- I mean irritating voice, what was there?

Quiet.

This godawful quiet.

Is this how his minions feel? With only one mind to fill thoughts? It was unbearable. The nothing swarmed his mind, and no matter how many minions, clowns, dolls, or cybernetic rabbits he surrounded himself with, his thoughts were only of how empty his thoughts were. This oxymoron did nothing to help, and only served to escalate his pain.

What did the old bitch call this again? That feeling when there are no other consciousnesses and you are left to the void?

Alone?

It was horrible. He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. Which is saying alot, since that would be Calliope, and he would wish alot of shit on her. Fire.The suffocating grip of deep space (if Cherubs succumbed to such a thing). Being torn apart by a pack of rabid Earth dogs. Spending eternity with a fucking clown. But not this. It's inhumane.

Actually, it's inhumanity might win it a point in the "Wish it on my sister" category. He might have to mill this over for a while, see if the suffering caused by it would be bearable. Till then, let's leave at "uncertain, but probably doesn't wish it."

But, back to him. 

This madness should not be exerted onto any conscious creature, a statement that, coming from CALIBORN, would hypothetically mean something. It is in this moment, on the eleventh hour, of the elventh minute, 111 days after the game started (might be a stretch, but lets roll with it), that the young, blind, idiot god made a promise to himself. 

He promised that, no matter how many he killed and how many more he would conquer, he would never be alone with his thoughts again.

The wheels had stopped. A sigh arose from Cal as he begrudgingly climed the ladder that led to the driver's seat.

"WHAT'S THE PROBLEM *THIS* TIME, YOU CHUCKLEFUCKS?" he barked at the drivers. There were three: the thin red hat, and only member trusted to drive, who Caliborn named after the robbery instrument entrusted unto him: the tiniest one, who had never once gotten hit from the time he was found to now (unless it was, like, with a newspaper): and the big-ish one with the square jaw and big gun who got his name from the coins he collected.

Crowbar looked over the front of the makeshift tank before responding "Well, boss, it looks like we's stuck. On what, I wish I could say, but I ain't got eagle eyes."

Another sigh from Caliborn, who then grabbed the radio installed by the old, scarred one. "FAST YELLOW HAT, GO CHECK ON THE FRONT OF THE TANK."

The sound of speed (have you ever heard a hedgehog running down an echoy hallway at 180 mph? Sort of like that) could be heard leaving, then returning, before a voice responded "Uhh, looks like a clay deposit caught the wheel."

Crowbar was confused, a look that didn't suit him well. "Da fuck do you mean clay? How da fuck did clay even form in this wasteland?"

"I don't fakkin know, it just did." 

The two went back and forth, but as they did, Caliborn started climbing down. He knew the problem, and at least one of them was smart enough to solve it. When he reached the bottem, he turned to his computer, the only thing left to keep his mind distracted. He turned to watching over the humans and trolls, as he used to, and noticed that he had grown to like a few in specific. There of course was the alpha male in the pointy shades that would have gotten all the bitches had he not made the big brain decision to be attracted to fellow males instead (biologically pointless, but a mental saving grace.) The was the troll with the broken horn, who when Cal did see him, was either being strong or being controlled by someone stronger (how the fuck did lanky ass Gamzee do THAT? Makes him almost admirable). The peasants had genetic superiors among them, to be sure. Not every steak is all fat. If only there was a way to interact with these folk. Of course he could talk to Dirk, but Cal wanted something more than fine smut. How would he ever be able to...

Wait a minute.

That's it. 

"THAT'S IT!" The cry of joy rang out through the entire tank, a genuine joy, not the malicious giggling the greens were used to. They were, honest to God, put of guard by it's sincerity and lack of anger. 

The boy god, his lack of vision be damned by muscle memory, rushed about the tank. He'd need a pickax, an alchamizer, some wood, a little bit of cloth, and his camera. The rusty bunny that had been with him for aboust as long as Gamzee rushed after him with zeal, carrying a ventriloquist doll on it's head. Good, Big Cal would need Lil Cal for this.

"BIG MAN," he called to his tied-for-favorite goon, Cans. "YOU'RE WITH ME!"

"Uh, Yeah," replied the giant. "What you want?"

"TAKE THIS PICKAX. I'M GOING TO CREATE MY MAGNUM OPUS!"

\---**---

He had lost. And he couldn't have been happier. 

The end result wasn't ideal. A rouge element of chaos, a robotic substitution. But, the general idea had been achieved, and that was all that mattered. You see, all those months ago,when he thought "i wish.." he remembered something.

He was no longer just a child. He was Lord Caliborn. Nay, he would be more. He would be Lord English.

And a Lord is entitled to whatever he damn well pleases. 

_"They'll turn 'er'tics to nothing,_

_Their rage will crack the stones,_

_They'll feast upon the spirits, and_

_They'll make clock their own._

_And when they bring the green men_

_And start the carnival,_

_Ya know ya boy'll be there_

_To watch the bodies fall_ "

-The Lord's of Mirth, by Marvus Xoloto

**Author's Note:**

> If it was shit, I'm sorry, it's my first ever fanfiction and it was finished at like 2am. Feedback is appreciated.


End file.
